A Two Arrowed Sign
by like broken glass
Summary: "Hey, Moony?" Prongs whispered, his lips curved in a small, contented smile. "Would you be godfather?" AU.
1. Prologue

_I don't own Harry Potter._

_Warnings: _Language, AU, Character AU, Human! Dumbledore, Logical, Abused, Young! Harry, Godfather! Remus and umm... I'll probably add/change more later.

_Pairings:_ None as of yet. Could likely have slash pairings in the future, so beware.

_Beta: _**If anyone would like to volunteer their services for this story, that'd be most welcome.** I can't promise how quickly chapters will be written, but I've got a good amount of frame work. I'd love someone to go over the chapters and perhaps bounce ideas off of. Message me if you're interested.

_Author's Notes: _Okay, so I was reading this story and Sirius and Harry got in this huge fight and Harry told Sirius that his parents should have made Remus godfather because Sirius was always leaving him when he needed him the most. And then whack, this idea decided to hit me in the face with its cruel insistence that I write it – no matter how many other projects I've got going on. I really have no idea where this is actually heading, but I'm sure it will straighten itself out. Any ideas would be most welcome! And reviews are a lovely source of encouragement.

_Summary:_ "Hey, Moony?" Prongs whispered, his lips curved in a small, contented smile. "Would you be godfather?"

* * *

**A Two Arrowed Sign**

* * *

Look both ways before crossing the street. You never know when you may fall and weep. There is no right or wrong, but what is human and what should remain unsung.

* * *

_Prologue_

* * *

**July 31, 1980**

_St. Mungo's Hospital_

"Hey, Moony?" Prongs whispered, his lips curved in a small, contented smile that seemed to fill the room with peaceful, delighted, _joy_. A joy that had been absent for so long, stolen by the wisps of fear curling in the corners of everyone's hearts – meek and strong - that he almost couldn't distinguish the taste of it on his tongue. _Sort of like the peppermint hot chocolate the house elves gave us at Christmastime every year._

"Yeah?" He rasped, his voice almost breathless, his bones heavy with the overpowering feelings of _happiness_. It purred loudly like a cat, echoing in his ears. It sneaked into the sharp edges of his soul, stained with the loss of love and the frozen thirst for vengeance – another facetious '_thank you'_ to the red-eyed monster devouring innocence.

"Would you be godfather?"

The words were strong, as if James expected his immediate acceptance to such an honour - an honour that he didn't deserve; no matter how many times Lily would later try to convince him. Shock surged through him like the bursts of adrenalin that pounced upon him when he would wake up from another nightmare, seeing the masks of death eaters around him only to shake his head and just find the dusty faces of picture frames and long-forgotten books. He glanced down at the bundle in Lily's arms, the small puffs of raven hair, sleepy eyes that seemed to burn into his with such intensity he could feel his hands shake, and tiny fists seemingly the size of his thumb. And then it threw itself upon him, attached itself to his very core, **protectiveness**, to a deep aching, _give everything I've got to have you breathe another steady, beautiful breath._

"But I thought Sirius...?" He trailed off, fighting the taste of tears in his throat and the way his voice slightly trembled. _He's too precious to have a werewolf for a godfather._

James smile widened, reaching into his bones and making his stomach ache with cheer. "Lily and I talked about it, and as much as I love you Sirius," he threw a cheeky glance at the other black-haired man in the room, who had this large grin on his lips; "you're not really the responsible type, so we thought..." James met his eyes, hopeful.

"Y-yes, of course. I'd love to." _I'll protect you, __**love you**__, with everything I've got, cub._

The baby gurgled in his mother's arms, capturing the attention of every presence in the room, and let his eyes close.

Harry James Potter was _happy_.

* * *

**October 30, 1981**

_Godric's Hollow_

"Are you all well?" Remus asked, his eyes scanning the face of his best friend through the small mirror. James' eyes were bright, but held that look of hopelessness that he always found staring back at him in the mirror every morning. His face was slightly pinched and his glasses sat a bit crookedly on his nose, but other than that he looked healthy.

"Yeah; Harry's flying around the house on that broomstick Sirius bought him and Lily's baking again." He grinned slightly, showing his white teeth, but Remus could see it was slightly forced. He knew James was dying to get out of that house – he had always been a free spirit and to confine him was almost as bad as torture. But James was also very protective of his family and friends, willing to do _anything_ to keep them safe. It just so happened going into hiding was the safest thing for themselves and little Harry. _It'll be over soon, we'll get the bastard and you won't have to hide anymore, Prongs._

Harry. The boy was the most mischievous one year old Remus had ever come in contact with. He was always grinning and crawling around, getting into something he wasn't supposed to. He was smart about it though, something Remus had decided he got from Lily. Of course, Prongs openly protested that statement, proclaiming that Harry got his cleverness and good looks from his father, but it was a losing argument. Everyone knew Lily was the cunning one.

Harry had brought a spark into the Marauders – Sirius had developed a softness for the child that Remus hadn't known he possessed; James was joking more and didn't look so tired; Lily's worry lines thinned out; even Peter seemed to be smiling more. The happy baby had brought a hopeful flame into their hearts, leaving them lighter and all the more determined to end this awful war.

_And then they had found out about the prophecy. _

Sirius and Peter had no knowledge of it. James and Lily had only confided in Remus because they felt he needed to know, especially if something happened to them. It was an aching option to consider, but this was _war_ and _people die_ and no one can control that. As Harry's godfather, they believed he may be able to protect Harry more easily with the knowledge, whether it meant leaving Britain all together or changing Harry's name and hiding him in plain sight. _Whatever will keep him safe_, Lily had said tearfully. It had made him physically sick to hear his bubbly godson, who was barely a year old, might be destined to defeat one of the worst dark lords since Salazar Slytherin – nevermind that he never put much stock into the whole subject of divination. Voldemort had been regretfully informed of the prophecy, trying several failed attempts on Harry's life already. That left James and Lily with no other choice but accept that since Voldemort believed the prophecy, they'd have to take the necessary measures of protection.

"Good." Remus smiled, eyes connecting with James' in a way that only spoke of years of friendship and understanding. The Marauders knew each other like the backs of their hands and secrets were only allowed with it was life or death, something they had never encountered until their graduation and their beginning involvement in the war.

The war had changed the dynamics of their group and that made Remus hate Voldemort and his gang of sadistic pure-bloods all the more.

Friendship had never been something that came easily for Remus, being a werewolf made people highly prejudice to his very existence – least of all actually taking an effort to treat him like a human being. The Marauders were all the Remus had and the fact that this war was trying to tear them apart was killing him. Apparently all the promises they had made over the years were worthless in the eyes of everyone else._ One of the Marauders is the traitor, _they accuse.

"How are _you_, Moony?" James questioned, leading back into the red chair he was curled up in. Remus could almost see him; one of his knees would be pulled up to his chest, the other leg he would be sitting on, one arm wrapped around his mid-section and the other holding the mirror at eye-level.

He wished he could go back in time where the four of them were curled together on the comfy couches in Gryffindor Tower, planning another prank that would undoubtedly land them another detention. It was simple then, _easy_. They didn't have worry about death eaters and prophecies and evil dark lords. _They could be careless and breathless with life._

"I'm good," Remus smiled half-heartedly. "Don't worry about me."

Prongs' eyebrows scrunched together. "Were Padfoot and Wormtail with you last full moon?"

"Padfoot was, but Peter was busy." Remus trailed off as James looked guilty. "James, that is not your fault! I know you would have been there if you could; just like every other time."

"Doesn't change it." muttered James, before shaking his head. "I probably ought to go make sure Harry's not flying into walls."

"Take care, okay?"

"Marauder's honour!"

* * *

**November 3, 1981**

_Hogwarts_

"Please, Dumbledore!" The man begged. He had dark circles under his eyes and his body was tightly curled into itself, his shoulders hunched. His face was worn and his bottom lip trembled in uncontrollable grief. "_Please_, just let me see him."

"Remus!" Dumbledore said harshly. "Look at yourself! You are in no state to see him like this, least of all take care of him!" His voice softened and he looked very, very old. "You know as well as I do that the Ministry would never give custody of the 'Boy-Who-Lived' to a werewolf. Harry is safest at his Aunt and Uncle's home. They will take care of him and the blood wards will ensure his safety from outside involvement."

"You don't understand! Petunia _hates_ magic – she hates Lily! You should have heard the things she told her! The blood wards won't protect him from those muggles!" Remus yelled, wishing that Dumbledore would just _understand_. He wasn't there when Petunia Dursley had shown up at Lily and James' wedding. He had no idea of her views of the magical world – or _freaks _in her vocabulary. _What fucking right did Albus Dumbledore have just to hand James and Lily's son off to those people?_

"Mr. Lupin," His voice was sharp and at that moment Remus knew that he had lost the battle. "Harry will be perfectly safe, I assure you. I must ask that you return home now."

Remus had never hated Dumbledore more than he had at that moment. What right did Dumbledore have to stop him from seeing his _godson_? The child that he was supposed to love and protect, no matter if his parents were gone or not. No matter if Padfoot betrayed them all and was stuffed inside Azkaban. No matter if Peter was dead and Remus was left all alone. Harry was his responsibility and he would never just listen to the words of Dumbledore to give up on every promise he'd ever made to James or as a Marauder. _We take care of our own, okay? Until our dying breath._

He turned on his heel and headed to the fireplace. Dumbledore never saw his determined eyes – if he had, perhaps he would have gone to greater lengths to keep Remus Lupin away.

Remus had lost the battle, but he'd win the war – even if it took years and years.

_Harry was all he had left._


	2. Chapter 1

_I don't own Harry Potter._

_Warnings: _Language, AU, Character AU, Human! Dumbledore, Logical, Abused, Young! Harry, Godfather! Remus, Abusive! Dursleys, and umm... I'll probably add/change more later.

_Pairings:_ None as of yet. Could likely have slash pairings in the future, so beware.

_Beta: _**If anyone would like to volunteer their services for this story, that'd be most welcome.** I can't promise how quickly chapters will be written, but I've got a good amount of frame work. I'd love someone to go over the chapters and perhaps bounce ideas off of. Message me if you're interested.

_Author's Notes: _I'm trying to work out a balance with Harry's character. I want him to be independent and sensible, but also showing the nature and side effects of his negative environment and however mature he may be, that he is only eight years old (soon to be nine). Also, as stated in the warnings, Dumbledore will not be evil. I would have made this chapter longer, but it just seemed to want to end where it does. Chapter 2 is almost complete. **Thank you so much for the reviews, follows, and favourites! **

_Summary:_ "Hey, Moony?" Prongs whispered, his lips curved in a small, contented smile. "Would you be godfather?"

* * *

**A Two Arrowed Sign**

* * *

Look both ways before crossing the street. You never know when you may fall and weep. There is no right or wrong, but what is human and what should remain unsung.

* * *

_Chapter 1_

* * *

**June 1, 1989**

_Hogwarts_

Albus Dumbledore chewed thoughtfully, the slightly sour treat bursting on his tongue. He was staring down at another letter, probably the hundredth of this kind he had received since that sad Halloween night. It was Remus Lupin, once again asking for permission to see Harry, perhaps talk with him about his parents and make sure he was happy. And one again, Dumbledore would have to respond with a short, polite refusal. The man just didn't get it. No matter how many times the werewolf would play the godfather card, Harry couldn't be allowed _any_ contact with the wizarding world. _It just wasn't safe_. He was only looking out for the boy's wellbeing. The Muggle world was the safest he could come to being, especially with the blood wards active around his aunt's house.

Of course, there was another advantage of having no contact between godfather and godson, and that meant that he could have complete control of how Harry was introduced to the wizarding world and therefore his views of it. Albus knew that Harry would one day have to face Voldemort and that meant that he would need to keep him far away from the ones would try to change his ideas of the light. He needed Harry to trust him and follow his lead. After all, Albus was the only one who held the information on how to destroy Tom Riddle. He needed Harry to be willing to do anything to destroy Voldemort, even if it meant his own death. _Albus knew the world wasn't black and white, but Albus was an old man and Harry was just a child. It was easier this way._

He didn't believe that Petunia Dursley could ever be unkind to her nephew – they were family after all – but he knew there was a large possibility that he wouldn't be the most loved child around. That was a sacrifice Dumbledore was willing to make – it was the safest place for the boy. However, if Remus came to form a relationship with Harry, it would ruin many of his plans. The Marauders had always been far too sneaky and observant to suit Albus – they were a good ally to have, but they wanted too much information.

He held a great many secrets close to his chest and they were things that _must_ stay secret. _He was the icon of the light – what would happen if they found out about you, Gellert? What would happen if another young child fancied the idea of existing forever? _Albus wasn't a cruel man, nor did he want to take over the world. He just needed to destroy Voldemort before Voldemort destroyed the wizarding and Muggle worlds alike, and Harry Potter was only way that he could do that.

It was for the greater good after all. _Maybe he hadn't changed as much since Ariana's death as he liked to believe._

* * *

**June 14, 1989**

_Number 4, Privet Drive_

There was a pattern to the Dursleys household. Harry had come to know this pattern like the back of his hand or the lightning shaped scar on his head. It was easy, when you had lived with the greedy, hungry souls for as long as he had. The eight year old has been subjected to their ways as long as he could remember, and as long as he could remember he had been an outcast, a fifth wheel, a leech attached to their perfect, wonderful family, tainting their image and their lifestyle. He had accepted that fact, for there wasn't much of a way not to. Sometimes he believed it too, thought maybe there was something seriously wrong with him that no one loved him, but other times he just felt _angry_. Angry that they never cared; angry that he was so different than all the other children because his relatives hated him; _angry that his parents had gone and off-ed themselves, leaving him all alone._

Harry was smart. He knew how to cook bacon and fry eggs just the way the Dursleys wanted, how much butter to put on their lightly browned toast, and how high to fill their glasses. He knew that Uncle Vernon liked two sugars in his tea, four ice cubes in his whiskey, and had a temper than any child would be a fool not to fear. It was these little things, things that never changed (for the Dursleys weren't the adventurous type, never trying new things even if it was just a different meal instead of the normal beef and potato Friday dinners) which had kept him alive to reach his short years of eight and these little things that he hoped would keep him alive until he finally had the resources to leave this horrid house.

Harry had been stealing loose change and placing them in the safest spot in his cupboard since he had come to the conclusion that it would be completely idiotic and extremely painful to stay here until it was within his legal rights to go without an adult guardian. He wasn't sure how much money he had acquired since this began, but it _wasn't enough_. It would probably never be enough. There were too many expenses in life, literally and hypothetically.

Street-smarts wasn't something Harry was efficient at, but he was a thinker. He was calculating and sneaky, cunning and logical. Sometimes he wondered how much of his thinking abilities came from his genetics and his environment. Of course, according to the Dursleys, Harry's genetics weren't all the great anyway. But there was also the wonder of how much of his life was lies and how much of it was just half-truths – for the Dursleys were certainly _not _honest, caring people.

Harry sighed, shaking his aching fingers out in front of him. There were various blisters scattered across the red and lightly scarred skin. Garden work was something Harry wasn't in the least fond of; one, because they never gave him gloves; two, because being in the hot sun for hours without water and a break was just inhuman. _They'd be happier if I died. _He grimaced, closing his eyes against the blaring rays of the sun, focusing on the pain in his hands with all his might. He had been able to do this since the _window incident _when he six, and while it had scared him funky at the time, it was a useful ability that Harry continued to _never_ take for granted. Immediately the pain dulled to a soft throbbing feeling, healing the small cuts and vanishing the thorns sticking into his palms. His hands remained red and scarred though; no matter how much he wished they would disappear too, they never did. His gift only ever healed open wounds and numbed the pain, never pacified scars or bruises. But it was better than nothing, right? _He would have died by now without it. _

He could never describe what happened when he 'healed' himself, so to speak. It was more like wishing with all his might that the bleeding would stop and the pain would go away. _Like when Dudley cries for a band aid and Aunt Petunia makes that noise in the back of her throat and kisses him on the forehead. _Usually, it left him exhausted and on the verge of fainting, but that was just the bigger injuries now. Harry had concluded that his 'ability' was like a muscle: the more you work it, the easier it is to use, the stronger it becomes. So he just felt a bit winded by the time his hands ceased to dribble blood.

Standing up and wiping the sweat from his forehead, probably smearing dirt onto his face in the process, he headed over to the shed, grabbing the large can of white paint. Every summer since his fourth birthday he was given the chore of painting the fence, leaving it coated in a glistening, fresh white that left many of the neighbours envious. That's what the Dursleys cared about above all else, _their reputation_. They needed to be the people others envied and wished to be; they needed to have the things others coveted and dreamt of; they needed to be praised above all. When that failed to happen, they got angry and Uncle Vernon's purple face always meant pain for his nephew. _They were never ever satisfied with what they had. Harry just wanted someone to love him and one hot meal a day._

He shivered, speeding up the movements of his paintbrush. If Harry didn't get the first coat added by the time Uncle Vernon came home from work, it would end badly. Harry liked to believe he was more mature than his whale of a cousin, but that didn't mean he wasn't a child. He was only eight years old, and just like every eight year old, he got frightened and he wanted to curl safely in his mother's arms away from the mean monsters in the world. But Harry's mother was _dead_ and his Aunt was a _witch_ and his Uncle was the very _monster_ normal children would run from.

He had no way out.

The most precious thing in Harry world was his stuffed wolf – it had an ear chewed off and was missing an eye, but it was his only possession. He'd had it as long as he remembered, leaving him with the belief that it had been left with him when he had been shoved into the grasp of his unwilling relatives. It made him feel safe when he was left alone in his dark cupboard under the stairs, confided by the lock to listen to the crawling of the spiders on the wall and the creaking of his small cot. He was used to the dark, tiny space, but that didn't stop his dreams of soaring through open skies and finding freedom.

If Harry wished he could do anything in the world, it was _fly_. Feel the wind in his hair and a weightless pulsing in his veins, laughing with delight at the knowledge that he was defying gravity. But that was impossible. _Impossibilities come true everyday though, don't they?_

"BOY! Get in here, now!" Aunt Petunia yell-whispered at him from the back door. She would never actually raise her voice at him unless every door and window was sealed – it wouldn't do for the neighbours to hear her annoying screeching.

Harry quickly turned and entered the kitchen, ignoring the look of always-present disgust on his Aunt's face. _What did I do wrong? _She had always looked at him like that. "Yes, Aunt Petunia?"

"Don't take that tone with me, freak!" She scowled, her pinched face turning an ugly shade of red. _Freak. You're just a freak. Unwanted. Abnormal. Unloved._

Harry knew very well that he had answered in a polite, respectful tone, but that didn't change. The Dursleys heard what they wanted to.

"Take the garbage out and then go to your cupboard. Vernon's bringing home guests. If I hear one sound out of there..."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." Grasping the large, smelly bag that the horse-like woman held out, he trudged towards to door. The bag was heavy, but he was used to it by now. His arms felt weak and occasional black spots danced in front of his vision due to lack of food, but that was normal.

Harry _wasn't_ normal though. His world wasn't normal. His aunt and uncle called him a freak for the unnatural things he could do – like turn his teacher's hair blue or talk to snakes or re-grow his hair. He had just come to accept that he wasn't the definition of normal and some people would probably have a heart attack should they find out about his healing abilities.

Throwing the bag in the large can by the side of the house, Harry turned to go back inside, when a voice behind him made him freeze.

"Hello."

He wondered for a moment if the voice was talking to him or someone else. It was most likely someone else; no one ever dared say a word to the _freak _that lived at Number 4, Privet Drive. He was well known for the horrible things he did, even if they were all just rumours or lies. But yet, he wanted the voice to be talking to him, because it was soft and slightly awed – not harsh and accusing like the way his relatives spoke to him or the taunting jeers of his school mates. The voice also sounded familiar in a strange, odd way.

Harry threw a quick glance over his shoulder and was shocked to find the man looking straight at him. He had blond hair and stood stiffly – uncomfortable, Harry thought, having gotten pretty good with body language – and he had soft blue eyes that were staring at him with such intensity that Harry wanted to squirm awkwardly. He also had a thin, white scar down his cheek, clothed in faded, heavily mended..._robes? Why would someone wear robes?_

"Can I help you?" He asked in a polite tone, wondering why on earth this man was talking to him.

"Are you happy?" The stranger burst out, his eyes looking wild for a nanosecond, his voice sounding almost desperate.

Harry tilted his head to the side, his frown deepening and his eyes widening in slight hesitation. He looked back to the window to see his Aunt's face glaring at him and knew he was in for it. He winced, knowing the pain that was bound to happen in the near future for him talking to someone and ruining the Dursleys' good name by spreading his abnormal nature through the neighbourhood. _If I could fly, I'd leave here forever._

"Harry?" The man asked again, looking slightly concerned. How did this man know his name? Most of all, why did he care?

"No." And Harry couldn't understand for the life of him why he had just told a stranger that, why he had just admitted that out loud. He had never honestly considered what it meant to be happy, but he supposed it was like drinking water when you hadn't gotten any for two days or taking a bath for the first time in weeks, no matter if the water was freezing cold, or those times at night when he would curl himself around his stuffed wolf and pretend. _This is all just a nightmare and I'm not a freak._

Turning, Harry ran back to the house as fast as he could, a part of him terrified of what the man would have said if he stayed; another part equally terrified to return to the house he had hated since he understood what emotion was.


	3. Chapter 2

_I don't own Harry Potter._

_Warnings: _Language, AU, Character AU, Human! Dumbledore, Logical, Abused, Young! Harry, Godfather! Remus, Abusive! Dursleys, and umm... I'll probably add/change more later.

_Pairings:_ None as of yet. Could likely have slash pairings in the future, so beware.

_Beta: _** A huge thank you to Nursie91 for looking through and giving thoughts on this chapter!**

_Author's Notes: _So this is a bit longer than the last chapter, but that's a good thing, right? As for my idea with the wards: I was pondering the fact that Voldemort couldn't touch him (until they shared blood, that is), but Peter could. So I took the whole "mother's love" scenario and turned it into blood magic – which will be explained in greater detail later when Harry becomes interested in the subject and just how he managed to survive a killing curse. I figure Remus will have to give him an explanation, for he won't just accept it as love, correct? He's grown up knowing only hate, indifference, and disgust. He'll want some type of logical explanation and he won't stop until he finds it. **Thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed, and favourited! I personally replied to the reviews – however if it's anon or you have your messages disabled, I can't. **The next chapter is in working progress. I'm going to try to keep my updates regular, but I can't always bypass the disease of writer's block.

Enjoy and let me know what you think!

_Summary:_ "Hey, Moony?" Prongs whispered, his lips curved in a small, contented smile. "Would you be godfather?"

* * *

**A Two Arrowed Sign**

* * *

Look both ways before crossing the street. You never know when you may fall and weep. There is no right or wrong, but what is human and what should remain unsung.

* * *

_Chapter 2_

* * *

**June 14, 1989**

_Lupin Residence_

Remus had known it wouldn't be the easiest task he had ever accomplished. That was obvious. Even before he landed on the Dursley's street after a very dizzying apparition, he could feel the terrified excitement bubbling in his gut like a potion about to explode. He was excited because this was his _godson_and he had finally gathered enough information to see him, to make sure the happy child he remembered so vividly was okay and being taken care of. He was also unbelievably terrified because what if Harry hated him? Or he hated the magical world; had the Dursley's corrupted his views? Or, the worst of all his fears, Harry _wasn't_ happy? Remus never liked the term "butterflies." It had always made him feel silly, but that seemed to be the only true description of his agitation. Their wings were digging the inside of his stomach and the constant fluttering was making his nauseous._It'll be fine; what's the worst that could happen?_

That really hadn't been the best question to ask himself.

The guilt was curling inside his heart, but he had gotten used to it by now. It was always there, nagging him and whispering horrible things. A huge part of Remus hated himself because it had taken so long – _years_ – to get to this point. His feet were firmly planted not feet away from his godson's residence, and while that was a cause for celebration, a slice of him was in mourning because it had taken almost _eight years_ to come to this point. _I'm sorry James._

The wards had been the main complication, along with the knowledge that Dumbledore was keeping close tabs on his whereabouts. The Marauder couldn't figure out why Dumbledore was so adamant that Remus not have any contact with Harry, but the man's opinion certainly didn't stop him. He hadn't known much about blood wards, but he had been doing research for all these years, only to physically smack himself when he found his answers. _I should have just run in recklessly like I wanted to. That's what Padfoot would have done_. No, not Padfoot – Black was a traitor.

He had needed a way to get through the wards without alerting Dumbledore to his presence, as well as some sort of heads up on what the protections in place may do to him. But information was scarce, for blood wards had been outlawed for many, many years and only the darkest parts of the wizarding world could you find any knowledge of the illegal art. Even then, you needed to know which place to go, which person to talk to that wouldn't immediately warn the ministry of your curiosity, as well as the money to back up your case. Illegal information wasn't cheap, and Remus could hardly hold a job that gave enough to feed himself, least of all buy a book costing him a small fortune. But here he was, finally, after so many years of tirelessly searching.

His logic for bypassing the wards had been simple (after enough research that is): Remus knew that Lily had sacrificed her life for Harry, creating a protective force that sunk into Harry's very skin. Dumbledore believed it to be love, but Remus knew there was more to it. _How many mothers died for their children?_ One book, he found, talked of blood sacrifices. It was easy to come the conclusion that Lily had done one of these rituals with Harry, granting him the protection of her own life force, should it come to it (the actual ritual was unknown to Remus, for it would be near impossible to calculate which one it was, along with the fact Lily could have made any changes to it she believed may improve it). Dumbledore had only amplified the protection in Harry onto the wards surrounding the Dursley house, anchored by Lily's blood in Petunia Dursley. It was then found that anyone the caster believed would hurt the receiving end of the ritual would be unable to touch them. But if the performer wasn't aware of their unkind intentions, then the protections wouldn't amount to anything in the presence of that person. With the knowledge that a woman he thought of as a sister had performed the ritual, Remus had come to the conclusion (after a lot of complicated, confusing words in bunches of old books) that since Lily trusted him, he would be able to come in contact with the wards and therefore Harry, no problem.

And he had been completely correct. Upon turning to the street of the Dursleys' home, he had only felt a gentle brush of familiar magic against his mind. _I miss you so much, Lily._ His gratefulness almost seemed too vanished almost as soon as he caught sight of little Harry Potter. _His godson._

Harry looked small, probably a head shorter that was he was supposed to be. He had the same green eyes he supported as a baby and Remus could easily make out James' messy locks across Harry's head. The inky black strands curled around his ears and forehead, leaving a dark contrast to Harry's pale skin. His cheeks were red, either naturally or because of too much sun, and he had a Lily's nose, with his grandmother's arched cheekbones, who was a Black by birth. It made Harry favour Sirius slightly, though Remus hated to admit it. _Why did you do it Padfoot? What did Harry, innocent little Harry, do to you?_

Remus tightly clinched his fists as he watched the boy drag a large trash bag at his side, physically stopping himself from running over to the child and smothering him in a hug. But Harry didn't know him, and as much as it pained Remus, he didn't know Harry. The werewolf didn't know Harry's favourite colour or his likes and dislikes, his favourite memories –_anything_. Harry was virtually a stranger to him. _But Harry could never be a stranger to him, because there was still a connection there, fizzling with protectiveness and love and curiosity. Some bonds can never be broken, no matter how many years they have been separated._

As much as James and Lily were Harry's biological parents and held the titles of "mum" and "dad", Harry was just as much the other Marauders' son. Remus had known since he was a child he would never be able to have children, a family to love and care for. The Marauders had been his family, his pack. Harry was the son he would never get to have, the cub that his wolf was willing to protect above all else. He had believed Sirius had felt the same, for the disowned Black had never been the settling down type of bloke. _Appearances aren't everything._

Remus had sharp, observing eyes. He noticed most things that others didn't or felt were too insignificant to be worth noticing. But sometimes things were so glaring obvious that he wondered how stupid a person had to be to overlook it.

First it was the state of his clothes. They obviously weren't bought for him, being three sizes too big, and they were also slightly wrinkled and dirty. Probably normal for a boy Harry's age, especially if he was just as mischievous as he was at one years old, but the placing and size of the Dursley house told him they were well off and fully able to buy a child proper clothes. Second it was the cracked, lopsided glasses resting on Harry's nose. They were held together at the middle by a thick circle of tape and looked terribly uncomfortable, for the ear pieces barely reached to wrap around his ears enough to hold them in place. Lastly, there was no mistaking the bruises on the Harry's small wrists. They were yellow looking, with a slight purple, and were fading, but Remus' wolf enhanced eyes were easily able to see the shapes of fingers, much too big to be another child's.

Remus was all-too familiar with the signs of abuse, not from his own experience fortunately. He would never forget pulling Sirius into the Hogwarts Express' bathroom at the beginning of every year, locking and silencing the door before he began a series of healing charms and manually wrapping bandages across open wounds that he didn't have enough experience to heal. Sirius hid it extremely well, but he shouldn't have had to. Injustice was one of the worst flaws in the world and for the days that he would ponder on perhaps the cheeky black haired man was innocent, Remus just wanted to cry. But he had cried enough for his friends, family that would never return. Death was a never ending silence and Sirius was locked in Azkaban for a betrayal that Remus would never be able to heal from. Yet, whether betrayal or death, Remus would never be able to forget them. _The memories would still come upon him at the worst moments, making his mouth sour and his eyes itchy with tears he had become too accustom to shedding._

"Hello." The word came out before he could stop himself. He was desperate to have some type of conversation with this child, who he loved more than life itself, whether he really knew him or not. The boy stopped mid-step and slowly turned.

Harry said something, Remus knew, but he didn't hear it. He was too mesmerized by just how much Harry favoured his dead friends, how his eyes looked dull compared to how they once twinkled, and the shocked note in his voice that Remus couldn't understand.

Remus' words were said almost robotically, but that would have been impossible. There was too much emotion in his words, in his stomach, in his veins. It seemed to be thrusting itself upon him like a restless wave, drowning him slowly in salt water, filling his throat with liquid and he could barely breathe.

_It was almost like he was losing them all over again._

"Are you happy?" He didn't know why he had chosen those words, he could have phrased it differently – hell he could have blurted out something even more incredibly stupid. Harry's eyes had grown even wider and Remus knew seconds after he spoke the words that they were not something you ask a child after you just met them. Yet, Harry small voice had cut him straight through, like the sharpest cutting curse created.

He had gone for _answers_, but Remus _hadn't_ found the answer he wanted. He kicked the bookshelf in his small, modest living room. As much as he wanted to take Harry and raise him, showering him with the love and affection he knew Lily and James would have given him had things gone differently, he had still wanted him to be happy. He_wanted_the Dursley's to have had accepted the boy and loved him like a son. The fact that Harry answered his question with no hesitation and even looked back at the house with fearful eyes, killed Remus inside.

That was it. He was getting his godson away from those horrible people. He needed a plan, and fast.

* * *

_Gringotts Bank_

Gringotts prided itself on two things: security of its treasures and prospering wealth. For those wizards intelligent enough, they allowed the goblins to control their finances – control which companies they made investments in or how to pay off debts or which field to give their donations too. You could trust a goblin with your gold, because they liked it too much to do anything but help it grow. Yet, most wizards believed that goblins were below them and deserved to bow to human's feet, kiss their robes, and hand over all their secrets. Goblins were fierce and magically powerful, and one could never claim a goblin has the cruel disease of stupidity. However, they did have a mean reputation for being very vicious in battle and very sour in a normal environment. But, if shown the proper respect (for goblins were worth just as much as humans and did not deserve the frowns that were shown at them from high noses and not in the least intimidating eyes), they could make you rich when you started with only seven gallons to your name. You had to be willing to take risks though, and Remus wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing.

While Remus never had much money, he had given free standing for the goblins to do with it as they saw fit. He was not rich, for his small vault was still poorly empty, but he had another option up his sleeve. It was one had never planned on using, for it never felt right, but he had no other choice now – he needed to get Harry far away from the Dursley's and he knew he could never gain Dumbledore's support, in fact the old wizard might just take Harry away should he be aware of Remus' plan. The blond Marauder didn't believe Dumbledore would leave Harry in the Dursley's care should he have stood in Remus' place today, but the man was more than likely to whisk Harry away to another 'safe' place and take away all Remus' chances of connecting with him. But Remus had enough of Dumbledore's interventions. Harry was _his_ godson and it was about time he held true to the title of godfather, an honour that he was still certain he didn't deserve.

"I'd like to talk to the manager of the Potter vaults." Remus asked politely upon finding himself standing in front of one information goblin seated in his high stool, a wooden desk under his nose. Remus glanced around discreetly, making sure that no one had overheard him. It wouldn't do for this to get back to Dumbledore's ears, so he would have to act quickly and secretively. It wouldn't be as difficult for him as may be for someone else (but he shouldn't be arrogant about it either, Lily's voice whispered in his ear) – he was a Marauder and former prankster. _Former because he didn't have anyone to prank anymore, no one to share the fun with. No James or Peter or Sirius._

The goblin eyed him critically, taking in his worn robes and scarred cheek. Remus forced himself not to sigh, for he knew the goblin wasn't likely to believe his claims because of his shabby appearance when the Potters' wealth was as high as mountains. Remus used to get clothes and books for Christmases and birthdays from his friends, more because he refused their charity. He was a grown man and he could make a living for himself, werewolf or not. However, he knew they just cared and wanted to make sure he was already. _He would give up all those presents, even when he had really needed them, just to have his friends back._

"Identification?" The goblin asked in a bored tone.

"Remus Lupin."

The goblin muttered something to himself and the single parchment on his desk glowed briefly, going unnoticed by every other wizard in the bank but Remus. Goblin magic had always fascinated him, but there wasn't much knowledge on their ways, for they were a very secretive bunch. Remus did know, however, like house elves and veelas and most other magical creatures, they did not need a wand to access their magical cores.

After sneering down at the parchment, the goblin pulled itself from its chair expertly and gesture to Remus to follow him. The fleeting thought of asking the goblin's name was shoved from his head quickly, for he knew that the goblin would not take kindly to that. They did not believe in friendly small talk.

"Here." The goblin stopped and opened a door. Inside was a larger goblin, not much taller than the one that was already stalking swiftly down the hall. He had a wrinkled face, making him look fiercer than the younger goblins out in the main hall.

"Mr. Lupin." The older goblin greeted curtly, nodding to the seat in front of his circular desk.

Remus sat a bit uncomfortably, for the goblin was looking at him unblinkingly.

"State your business." He growled out, though not unkindly.

Remus cleared his throat. "Harry Potter, heir to the Potter fortune, was left in my care in the previous heir and wife's will. However, Mr. Potter was forced from my care by...outside persons, and is now coming to my home. I am in need of a key to enter the Potter vault so that I may efficiently provide for him, as well as the list of the main Potter properties, for Mr. Potter's safety is my uppermost priority." Finishing, Remus took a steadying breath, hoping he had gotten the words out correctly. James or even Sirius would have a much more relaxing time dealing with the goblins, for that information was a part of their upbringing – they were heirs to a large fortune and would have to one day manage it and make sure that the gold continued to flow. Remus was from a poor family and had no such need of that lesson.

"The Potters left a key for the guardian of their son. When he comes of age, such key will disintegrate. Other keys must then be generated by the heir." The goblin stated, as if said a hundred times before. _He probably has_, Remus thought. "Blood will be needed to verify your identity and access to young Mr. Potter's finances."

Remus held out his hand wordlessly, only flinching slightly as the goblin pulled a small, harsh looking dagger from his draw and sliced a nice cut into his palm. He then moved the dagger, which had a good amount of blood on it, onto a piece of parchment and flicked it. The blood seemed to be absorbed by the paper, before the cut healed on Remus' hand. He looked down briefly, wondering how it healed magically when neither he nor the goblin had done any magic – or at least, he didn't think the goblin had.

"You are accepted." The goblin's hands lit up for a nanosecond, and a folder appeared in front of the goblin with a tiny, gold key sitting on top. He held the objects out to Remus, continuing, "A list of all investments, properties, and the current amount – pardon any objects – in Mr. Potter's trust vault and family vault. He shall be given a key to his trust vault on his eleventh birthday to do as he pleases or as his guardian sees fit. Since you only have partial control, you are unable to change any investments, make withdraws over three hundred gallons, or remove any objects from the vault until Mr. Potter's coming of age."

"Thank you." Remus nodded, a small smile on his face. The goblin didn't say anything, so he took that as a cue, moving towards the door, which was opened by a much smaller goblin, who walked him back to the main entrance.

Looking around the marble hall, he then considered his options.

Remus had never intended to access the Potter vaults, not wanting to believe he couldn't support Harry on his own, but he_couldn't_. He wanted Harry to have nice clothes and not second hand books and presents all the time (he did not want to spoil Harry, but he didn't want him to be looked down on for things he should have always had). He also needed to take him to one of the Potter locations, for the wards would be much stronger than the ones around his small cottage. It would also be easier to keep Harry protected during the full moon if he had the large basement of the Potter Manor at his fingertips. A feeling of dread began pushing itself from his fingertips to his toes. _What if Harry hates me for being a werewolf? What if he's scared? What if he doesn't want to stay with me?_

Shaking his head vigorously, probably looking like madman to the other beings in the bank, Remus sternly told himself to get his act together. If Harry decided that he didn't want to live with Remus, he would do his best to make sure he made it to a safe and happy place. But still there was a chill in his fingertips that wouldn't go away, icy and smirking.

* * *

_Potter Manor_

The Potter Manor was a basically a huge castle, or at least that had been Peter's words when James had invited the two of them over for three weeks at the end of summer, right before their seventh year. Sirius had already been living there since the beginning of the holiday, finally content with the idea his parents would never change. He had run away and gone immediately to James, allowing the older boy to bring him to his parents and allow them to nurse his bruises and give him a home.

Remus stared, feeling the bile in the back of his throat. It had been so long, too long since he had stood in this entrance hall, looking onto the large living room that he had spent hours in on rainy days, playing chess with Peter and joking around with James and Sirius. He found himself walking along the familiar halls, pressing his hand to the smooth walls and forgetting himself in memories. _He could see their ghosts as they talked and laughed in various positions and parts of the house. He could see Mrs. Potter yelling at__them__with blue hair and Mr. Potter hiding a grin behind his hand and a laugh behind a gruff coughing fit._

Remus closed his eyes and straightened his shoulders. He didn't come here to walk down memory lane and get stuck in the past. He came here to make sure it was safe and check the wards, before he brought – if Harry agreed – his godson home to the house he's father had grown up in.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Remus set to work. He could feel the thrum of the wards in the back of his head, waiting to be powered and given direction. On most old manors like this one, the wards had so many layers and so many different wizards' magic intertwined with it, they had basically become capable of thought, following the wishes of the current owner. Harry would claim that title of owner and control of the wards on his seventeenth birthday, but for now, Remus would be able to bring the dormant wards alive and direct them to keep Harry safe from harm. _Because that's all he really wants, even if Harry doesn't want to be safe with his godfather, he'd find someone else who would love the child and give him a proper home._


	4. Chapter 3

_I don't own Harry Potter._

_Warnings: _Language, AU, Character AU, Human! Dumbledore, Logical, Abused, Young! Harry, Godfather! Remus, Abusive! Dursleys, and umm... I'll probably add/change more later.

_Pairings:_ None as of yet. Could likely have slash pairings in the future, so beware.

_Beta: _** A huge thank you to the lovely Nursie91! **

_Author's Notes: _Here you go! Chapter 3 is finally complete. It went a bit differently than I originally planned out, but I think it fits together pretty well. I was going to have Vernon instead of Petunia, but this just kind of happened. I'm really striving to keep Dumbledore human, but very determined to end Voldemort. Tom had destroyed so much of the wizarding world and when hope was almost swept away, there came Harry. It would only be natural for a wizard with such power and influence (along with the title of "Leader of the Light") that he would automatically think it is his job to prepare Harry for his so-called destiny, right? **Thank you to all who followed, favourited, and/or reviewed! **

_Summary:_ "Hey, Moony?" Prongs whispered, his lips curved in a small, contented smile. "Would you be godfather?"

* * *

**A Two Arrowed Sign**

* * *

Look both ways before crossing the street. You never know when you may fall and weep. There is no right or wrong, but what is human and what should remain unsung.

* * *

_Chapter 3_

* * *

**June 18, 1989**

_Number 4, Privet Drive_

Harry hated when the Dursleys had guests. He had to sit in his cupboard and listen to his Uncle's false laugh and his Aunt's sickly-sweet tone and his cousin Dudley try to impress the people with his "intelligence." Dudley had blond hair that stuck to his scalp like sticky glue and resembled a baby whale, with his large torso, meaty arms, and short stature. The temperamental child had always done everything in his power to get Harry in trouble, purposely breaking items or coming back with crazy tales of how Harry had tortured him during break at school. However, as many nasty traits Dudley possessed, he wasn't intelligent. So Harry found that listening to the fake laughs of the _guests_ were worse than the Dursleys.

Harry had gotten a particularly bad smack in the face that night – after the guests were gone and his uncle had cracked open his new bottle of whiskey. Thankfully, the man had gone to bed shortly after, muttering about _freaks_ and how he _deserved to get a humongous raise for entertaining those idiots_. Harry had never been so glad it was summer, for the dark purple colouring on his cheek would have gotten him made fun of. Not that they didn't make fun of him without the bruises – it just would have made it worse. The teachers never cared, never tried to stand up for the child with the baggy clothes and lopsided glasses that came to school with bruises on his wrists. Like every other person around they were aware of his reputation and steered clear of him. _He hated adults for that reason. If you grow up just to give up every piece of compassion and humanity you possess, he'd rather kill himself than reach that stage. Adults were not to be trusted. _Of course, their behaviour towards him had an upside, for he could get horrible marks and never be called out on it.

That was one of the unspoken rules in the Dursley household – unspoken, but certainly _showed_. He could remember coming "home" from his first day of primary school with a shiny _A_ and getting one of the worst beatings of his short life for showing up their precious Dudley's _C_. From that point on he had worked out a way to barely scrape by, just enough so he wouldn't be held back. That didn't mean he never tried. He absorbed the information like a sponge, spending his free time in the school library – for his own curiosity, and to get away from the other children, specifically his cousin's "gang." He would read until his eyes started to water due to the lacking prescription in his glasses, wanting to know and find and _see_. _He wanted to be better than his relatives, do something worth remembering – show the world he wasn't just the unwanted freak that lived on Privet Drive._

However, Harry certainly wasn't a genius. He could hold his own in common sense and logic, but he didn't speak fifty languages or develop a cure to some unfortunate disease at eight, almost nine years old. Nevertheless, Harry was learning – he wasn't just shoving it off with all the excuses that would be completely understandable. He was trying with everything already laid on his small, boney shoulders. That was worth more than achieving the highest marks, wasn't it?

Harry rolled his shoulders, glancing back up at the sky. It had turned a threatening gray in the past two hours he had been mowing the lawn and adding the second layer of paint to the fence. There was already thunder echoing around him, but fortunately the rain seemed to be listening to his prayers. If it started pouring now, the new paint he had just added would get ruined, for it hadn't had time to properly dry yet. He stared at the paint with careful eyes, feeling a drop of water fall on his forehead. If only he could somehow dry it, saving himself from the punishment of wasting a can of pain and the money Uncle Vernon worked '_very, very hard_' for. Wondering, he lifted his hands, glancing back at the house one last time, and concentrated. He had been able to do freaky things before – he could heal himself (well, not fully, but still)! Shouldn't he be able to dry this paint before the storm fully hit? Then he would escape to the house and set the table for the Dursleys and maybe sneak out after they got to bed to steal some food from the cupboard. Scrunching his face, he watched with awed eyes as a pale blue mist seemed to come out of his palms, enveloping the fence. He stared as it encircled the structure and moved slowly, leaving perfectly dry white pain in its wake.

Then he was struck harshly on the head with a heavy metal cooking pan, making black spots dance cheerfully in front of his eyes. He looked dizzily around from the source and found, to his uppermost horror, his aunt standing behind him, pale and staring at him in indescribable fear and loathing. _She was scared of him, of what he had just done. But what was so scary abound making paint dry?_

"F-freak!" The woman spit, stepping away from him, as if his very presence was contaminating her. But then her eyes seemed to gain a gleam in them, something that resembled his uncle too much to end well. "You're just like _her,_ you know." She sneered. "I swore when we were _forced_," Aunt Petunia stressed that, showing him just how unwanted he had always been; "to take you in that we would beat the freakishness out of you!" And then she raised the pan again and, with all the strength her boney arms possessed, hit him.

It connected with his shoulder, a loud crunching sound ringing in his eyes. The black spots that were still dancing in his vision from the previous blow turned white. Pain enveloped him. It hurt so badly, like there was fire licking up his shoulder. Before he could even muster the strength to scream, she hit him again. Again and again, and Harry had never wished for death so much._ This was different than the feel of his Uncle's fists or the gruesome sounds of a belt meeting his back. Perhaps it was her tool or her malicious eyes or the feeling of twisted betrayal tainting his gut. His Aunt Petunia had always preferred never to touch him. Now she was probably going to kill him. For making paint dry._

It was almost funny.

The rain was pouring down on them, leaving his hair sloshing against his forehead and his too-big clothes sticking to him uncomfortably. Blood splattered form his nose and his right cheekbone was surely broken. He wasn't screaming and his Aunt wasn't talking, but he knew what she intended to do. _Could he stop her? _That wasn't really the question though, was it? He _could _stop her – push his palms out and unleash whatever sort of power he possessed. But did he _want _to stop her? Did he _want_ to continue living like this?

Death would be easy. He'd see his parents, perhaps, and the stray dog that used to visit him when he was four that had been hit by his Uncle Vernon's car. He would be able to move easily without hurting. He would get warm food. Right? Dead was supposed to be kind, let you slip away in a world of wondrous discoveries. He supposed maybe he would go to hell – for being a freak, as his Uncle said. _Hell_, the large man had glared at him, _is a place for horrible, freaky people and you would will no doubt rot there, boy_. But was Harry a horrible person? He had never tried to harm anyone purposely; he had never meant to intrude on his relatives; he had never taken pleasure from the neighbourhoods' fearful eyes. _I used to have dreams of a voice singing to me. It was a comforting voice – I could never make out the words, but it was a beautiful tone. I hold onto those dreams like I do my stuffed wolf. It's the closest thing I have to a family, someone who loves me. If I die, there's a least a fifty percent chance it could be good. Unlike here, where I'm not ready yet – I don't have enough plans made and money saved. There is no hope._

He was holding onto consciousness with bleeding fingertips, eyes closed. He had almost fully given in, when a voice cut through his eardrums and the weapon his Aunt had been using to murder him banged loudly across the side of the garden.

* * *

_Privet Drive_

It was a darkened sky that greeted Remus when he apparated to the Dursley's street. Rain was beginning to fall and lick the concrete in the old alley he landed in. He pulled his robes tighter around his frame, blocking the rain. As he walked, he could see some families through their unshielded windows, smiling and laughing. You would have never guessed this street had a secret. He forced the scowl from his lips. He really didn't know of all the horrors Harry had experienced here, but he hoped to Merlin it wasn't as bad as he feared. _What would he do then? How could he possibly help a child who had only known hate and abandonment?_

His feet pulled themselves along, a gnawing sense of urgency beginning to explode in his head. Something was _wrong_ – very wrong. He couldn't figure it out. He looked around him, pausing his steps. No Death Eaters. Dumbledore wasn't there, or at least were Remus could see him...

_Harry. _

He hadn't even been aware he was taking off before he was in a blind sprint to the large _4_ marked on one of the look-a-likes. There was the same spotless garden and high white fence that kept all strangers' eyes away that he had seen only four days ago. The paint looked new, as if just dried and he praised the timing for whoever had to paint it, for the rain was falling in large waterfalls from the sky. His robes were soaked down to the core and his eyes blinked rapidly against the sheets of raindrops.

He could smell blood. His sensitive wolf nose came in handy on occasions, allowing him to recognize familiar people by their scent or smell when magic had been done. He could recall the smell of the giggling green-eyed babe, just barely; it was so faint under the large scent of rain and blood. He yanked the fence's gate open – or tried to – and growled furiously when it refused to budge.

"_Alohomora!_" Remus whispered, dread filling his stomach. He knew as soon as he did magic, Dumbledore would be aware. Perhaps the man would just believe it was Harry doing accidental magic, instead of an actual wizard hanging around. He prayed that would be the case, for this was his only chance.

Magic was only monitored in the Muggle World, around muggleborns' homes. It left the underage wizard trace a laughable excuse to pureblood wizards or those halfbloods that lived with an adult witch or wizard. As long as you were in a place where magic was done regularly, the Ministry had no way of knowing just who had done the magic. So Dumbledore would have no way of knowing if it were Harry's unbalanced magical core getting disrupted by a large emotion or Remus using a simple unlocking charm.

Entering through the gate, he froze immediately at the scene before him. A boney, horse-like woman with sticky blond hair, soaked to the bone, holding a large pan, was beating a small boy. Rivers of red mixed with the rain and clumped against the small boy's black fringe. Harry did not scream, nor did he look to be crying. His body had relaxed, almost like he was sleeping. _He looked almost peaceful, with crimson seeping into his too-large shirt and purple staining around his right cheek like the face paint children applied at Halloween. His small body bounced slightly with each hit; he looked more like a doll than a boy._

Remus could feel the wolf inside of his clawing viciously to get out, tear this Muggle woman into pieces for even daring to hurt his beloved cub. His hands shook as adrenalin and horror burst through his veins, his heart pounding in a loud, uneven rhythm. He was frozen in shock and horrified fascination. _How could someone do that to another person, least of all a child? _His brain finally kicked into order and he was raising his wand again ("_Expelliarmus!_") pushing the Muggle woman against the fence harshly and her weapon flying into the large, perfect garden. He ran over, his legs feeling like lead, to the small boy, fingers digging into the side of his neck. He could hear the boy's soft heartbeat in his ears, but that wasn't enough to satisfy him. He finally found the sluggish pulsing, nearly slumping in relief.

Anger, which could hardly be described as anger, burst through him as he pushed the black locks from his godson's bloody forehead gently. He could easily see that his right cheekbones was broken, the skin badly bruised, blood sweeping sweetly from the wound. His right arm was twisted at an awkward angle, clearly broken. His left arm was fallen limply at his side, obviously having been trying to protect his face. Several fingers on that hand seemed to be broken. Blood was gushing out of a large wound on his head, turning his black hair a crusty auburn. He remembered head wounds always bleed like waterfalls and calmed down slightly. Harry would need to be healed though, and bloody fast.

He picked the boy up, careful not to irritate the wounds even more, glancing at the knocked out woman lying against the fence. He wanted to kill her – or at least give her some type of punishment for what she did to his godson, but he knew he had to get Harry to safety. He didn't know how much longer the boy had. He had also done magic a second time and he had no doubts that Dumbledore would send someone to look around.

There was a reason he was called the level-headed Marauder. He needed to think about Harry now, not the revenge he would make sure to get later on. Pressing a kiss to the boy's bloody and rain soaked head, he turned on his heel and apparated.

* * *

_Hogwarts_

Dumbledore was sitting comfortably in the Kitchens, picking at his chicken and brooding. He did that a lot. He had many memories to brood on, you see. Albus had been alive for many years, seen many things, and learned many life lessons. However, he wasn't all-knowing and he didn't have the right to make decisions for other people – sometimes, he forgets that. He was brooding on Severus Snape this time, thinking of the man's sneering face and kind heart. Albus knew that man didn't really have that certain flare to be the perfect teacher, but he certainly had the knowledge and the skill. Severus had come to him with red eyes and a hopeless energy, begging for life of the woman he loved. He had been shocked, remembering the friendship that Severus had with Lily Evans, but not believing it had run so deeply. He hadn't promised the dark-haired man that he could save the redhead, but he had said he would try_. And he had, but some things are written in fate, prophesied by the very creators of magic._

Snape would indeed be immensely useful to him when Tom returned from wherever he was biding his time. He had kept the poor boy from Azkaban and given him something to do with his life, keeping him close enough that should Tom make any plans, Albus would know of them. He knew it was unlikely that Severus would make it through the next war, leaving a small sorrowful voice in his head shaking with grief. The young man was exceedingly brilliant a potions and had created many different useful formulas during the war and continued to do so. He was also remarkably witty, when one looked passed his sour attitudes and snide replies. It was a protective defence, Albus knew, that had formed from a less than pleasant childhood and the horrors that seemed to dance within his very eyes from the war.

The prophecy couldn't have arrived at a better time, nor could tiny Harry Potter, with his mother's bright, curious eyes and his father's mess that people still seemed to call hair. Dumbledore hated to admit it, but he doubted he could have killed Tom. He was growing old and his magic, while still very powerful, didn't replenish itself as quickly as it had in his youth. Tom rarely showed himself during battles, anyway, allowing Death Eaters to pounce upon the terrified wizard and witches in common places such as Diagon Ally or St. Mungo's. Tom would visit important wizards, to kill them himself, or have one of his many Death Eaters take them captive so he could torture and then kill them. _The war had been becoming uncontrollable – hope was beginning to fade away like a gentle breeze and rain had started coming in large, crackling storms._

Then he had come across a spark of hope when interviewing for the next Divination Professor. It turned into a full flame when he realised that the two children compatible to the prophecy were the Longbottoms' or the Potters', each in his Order and each trusting him impeccably. It had been surreal at the time to think their saviour, the destined defeater of Lord Voldemort, was in either Alice's or Lily's womb.

Albus raised his fork to his lips again, chewing the chicken slowly. Neither child had displayed magic in their infancy, which wasn't rare. In fact, if they had, it would have been a cause of great concern. Most children didn't have their first bursts of accidental magic until their third or fourth birthday, unless in great distress. Ariana had been an exception, doing magic practically just after birth. But her magic had always been temperamental, fading along the lines of destructive and productive. She had also always had wild magic – even touching their mother's wand led to a pulse of magic that caused things to shatter beyond repair. She had been very powerful, but very uncontrollable.

He signed, taking a sip of his tea and then dropped it clumsily to floor when a buzzing sounded loudly through the walls of his mind. An alarm one of his instruments had gone off. He jumped off his comfortable chair with surprising agility and hurried to his office, which was a long ways from his current placement in the Kitchens. Finally getting to his office and rushing to his collection of silver instruments, panting lightly, his eyes zeroed in on the one that was spinning wildly. His skin paled slightly, staring at the same item that had gone off once already a few minutes ago. That meant only one thing.

_There was a wizard doing magic on Privet Drive._


End file.
